


You Weren't Born a Killer (But You Can't Tell That No More)

by riverlight



Category: 3:10 to Yuma (2007)
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, M/M, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-26
Updated: 2008-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ah," he says. "Is that so." He reaches out a hand, polite as you please. "Good to meet you, Charlie Prince. Ben Wade."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Weren't Born a Killer (But You Can't Tell That No More)

**Author's Note:**

> Rape, murder. This is Charlie Prince, after all.

When Charlie was six, James gave him a gun he'd carved out of a branch of the old cottonwood. "Someday we'll go off and fight the Apaches together," he promised. "When we're older."

When their Pa heard, he took his belt to Charlie. "I ain't slaving away in this god-forsaken country so you can get yourself killed by a god-damned Injun," he said, between strokes. "You boys are gonna make something of yourselves if it kills me trying."

"You ain't the boss of me!" Charlie howled, and his pa whalloped him again, for talking back.

Sometimes it makes Charlie laugh, thinking back. It killed his pa, sure enough, but Charlie's making something of himself now, yes sirree.

* * *

Charlie wakes to the sound of an almighty hullaballoo, horses galloping down the street and men shouting. He's not sure what time it is, the middle of the night some time; it's dark enough he can't see his hand in front of his face. For a moment he thinks maybe it's the Apaches, but he don't smell smoke nor hear flames, so maybe not.

The jail ain't much more than a claim shanty, thin boughten boards and peeling tar-paper, and he can hear the voices outside, clear as a church-bell. "God-damned outlaw bastard," someone snarls—the deputy, if he don't miss his guess. Not the Apaches, then. "You're gonna burn in hell. You're gonna burn in hell, and I'm gonna send you there."

"Now, that's not very Christian of you, sheriff," another voice says, mildly. "As the Bible says: _'be ye therefore merciful, as your Father is merciful.'_ Luke, 6:36."

Charlie snorts. The sheriff ain't gonna let that be—yup, there it is, the smack of flesh on flesh. Someone grunts, and someone else snickers, meanly. "I'll give you mercy," the sheriff growls, and the men laugh.

"Come on, Williamson," another voice says. "Let's get him out of the street. Man like this, I don't want to take any chances. What is it, now, ten stagecoaches he's taken?"

"Eleven," the first voice corrects, muffled but still audible. There's a thud, the jingle of spurs, another grunt, the sound of (if Charlie don't miss his guess) a boot to the stomach. Charlie's never known a sheriff wasn't willing to kick a man while he was down.

"Leave him be, sheriff," someone else says. "It's almost dawn. You sent someone to get the judge?"

There's the flicker of torchlight, and the deputy's voice is closer. "On his way," he says, and spits. "He's out cold. Put him in with the princess, there."

* * *

When he was ten, Charlie fell down the well. His Pa whupped him for being clumsy and fouling the water, and whupped him again for crying.

When his Ma coddled him, after, and gave him something to put on the stripes, his Pa slapped her. "Don't touch him, Caroline," he said. "The boy's soft enough, he don't need you treating him like a girl."

"I ain't soft," Charlie said.

His Pa laughed. "Look at those lily-white hands, boy," he said. "Least I got one son who knows how to be a man."

In the end, James ended up working in the railroad office. Not much of a man, in Charlie's book.

Last man to call Charlie a princess Charlie bent over a saloon table and made him beg before he fucked him. He'd have preferred a whore, given the choice, but a hole's a hole, and, well, if a man ain't quite as pretty as a woman, he's tougher to break, and Charlie likes a challenge.

* * *

The stagecoach robber's got no guns, of course, and no money on him, but he's got a nice watch, fine Mexican sliver. Charlie pockets it. His jacket's nice, too, heavy wool. Charlie stays awake a while, but there's nothing to see, so after a while he drifts off.

He doesn't wake up till dawn's brightening the window. The stranger's sitting in the farthest corner, straight-backed and easy-as-you-please against the wall. He's got a black eye and blood in his hair and he's staring at Charlie. "You're wearing my jacket," he says, as soon as Charlie opens his eyes.

"You ain't gonna be needing it much longer," Charlie says. "They're gonna hang you, mister."

"Oh?" he says. He doesn't sound too worried about it. "What about you, are they going to hang you too?"

Charlie gives him his best sharp grin. "If they can keep hold of me long enough," he says.

"Oh?" the robber says again, thoughtfully. "You part of a gang?"

"I left home at fifteen and been alone since," Charlie says. "I don't need a gang to get out of a piddling little jail like this. Charlie Prince. Maybe you've heard of me."

"Ah," the robber says. "Is that so." He reaches out a hand, polite as you please. "Good to meet you, Charlie Prince. Ben Wade."

* * *

When he was fifteen, Charlie ran off and joined the army.

He figured being a solider would be exciting. Fifteen years riding herd on the cattle, fifteen years of dust storms out of the Cristos, no company now James'd run off and left him behind and Ma busy with the babies, no prospects but the backside of his father's hand—he was ready for a little excitement.

He learned pretty quick it wasn't like what he thought. He was cold and hungry and tired, and they didn't always have powder for the guns. For the first couple of months the Union men didn't come far enough south for them to do much fighting. The men pushed him around and the whores wouldn't look at him twice, called him scrawny.

At Picacho Pass, though, he got first blood. Some men, he'd heard, didn't take well to fighting. Charlie, it turned out, didn't much mind it.

The men didn't push him around so much, after that.

* * *

The deputy brings them paper and ink with their dinner. "Any last words, boys?" he says, smirking.

"What happened to the right to a fair trial?" Wade asks.

"You'll find, I think, that the railroad don't take kindly to theft, Mr. Wade," the deputy says. "And the railroad boys helped build this town, so we don't take kindly to theft, either."

"Ah," Wade says. "Fancy that." He takes the paper and ink.

The scratch of the pen is loud in the silence. Charlie stands at the window. There's not much to see—ain't much use, a jail with a good window—but he can see a little scrub, a little sky, the curve of the river.

"No one to write to, Mr. Prince?" Wade asks, after a time. "No family? No woman waiting for you at home?"

Charlie turns. Wade is looking at him, inquiring. "I told you," Charlie says. "I'm getting out of here."

Wade smiles slightly. "Ah," he says. "That's right. You did tell me that. Here." He holds the paper out to Charlie.

Charlie looks down, sees himself in profile against the window, looking out through the bars, looks up again and sees Wade's hand, stretched out to him. "Well?" he says, after a moment. "You gonna come with me, or you gonna let them hang you in the morning?"

* * *

Charlie was eighteen when he came home and found the woman he was fucking in bed with another man. She'd been a whore before she met him, but he'd got her a room above the saloon, bought perfume from France, dresses from Mexico.

He shot the cowboy and tied her to the bed, fucked her one last time. Then he strangled her. She begged him, but he didn't pay no mind. He'd told her he was a jealous man.

* * *

When the sheriff brings them dinner, Wade's lying face down in the straw. When the sheriff comes in to investigate, Charlie chokes him until he collapses, steals his keys. Wade jumps up and grabs the lantern. They've piled the straw against the far wall, and it's no more than five minutes before the flames are big enough to attract attention and provide enough distraction for them to sneak out.

They get to the canyon bottom before they pause for breath. There's just enough water in the river to break their scent, and Wade splashes in. For a moment, Charlie doesn't follow.

Wade turns. "Well?" he says, raising an inquiring brow. "You coming?"

* * *

Charlie was twenty two when he met Ben Wade.

"Well, Charlie?" Ben said, one night when they were camped just over the border. "I could use a good man. Want to join me?"

The moon was full and high over the Rio Grande. Charlie thought a moment, about family and women and being alone, and how Wade'd stood there in that prison in Bisbee, and held out his hand.

"Yeah, Boss," he said. "Yeah."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Pocketmouse for beta; much appreciated, lady!
> 
> Written for: dr. in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge. Title paraphrased from a song on Ben Nichols' phenomenal album "Last Pale Light in the West," which in turn was based on Cormac McCarthy. I know, I know, but it sure seemed appropriate.


End file.
